March
by SSJ-Alhazred
Summary: Oliver Wood fought in the final battle. As a Muggleborn, he spent the year leading up to it fighting for survival, with Marcus Flint unwilling to abandon him. Snatchers, Death Eaters, internment camps...sometimes, love is the only thing one has. SLASH
1. Runners

**March  
**Chapter 1: Runners  
_Alhazred - ssjDOTalhazredATgmailDOTcom - alhazredDOTlivejournalDOTcom  
_Not For Profit work. Harry Potter and related materials © J.K. Rowling._  
_

_It had been such a simple insult, a common one by Muggle standards, perhaps less so in the wizarding world in this increasingly liberal age. Still, some insults were universal. One way of heavily insulting the captain of a school sports team, someone who prided himself on the masculinity that came with that title, was to call them a poofter._

_In actuality, had Oliver just called Marcus a poofter, very little would've happened. They had known each other for years, been rivals for years, and it took especially violent things to spark conflict after so much time spent wearing out the smaller insults._

_After the last task of the Twiwizard Tournament, after Cedric Diggory came back very dead, after Oliver and his teammates from Puddlemere that he'd gone to see the event with recovered from their slack-jawed silence at hearing Harry Potter say "he's back," well, Oliver just didn't think it was, at all, polite for Marcus Flint to be leaving for the train station instead of going to the Great Hall, where Dumbledore was going to say a few kind words about the deceased. Maybe Flint just didn't have as big of an interest in the whole thing...but that would've just made it worse._

_And Oliver caught up with him right outside the front gates. "What's the matter, Flint? In such a rush to get back to your boyfriend or something, you can't show a little respect for the dead?"_

_It was sudden, unexpected. Even Flint had never simply turned and decked Oliver after a single jibe. Oliver didn't even realize it had happened until he was on the ground, Flint's hands around his neck. "You think that's funny, Wood?! You think __**that's**__ respecting the dead?!"_

_Oliver's wand was in a sheath tied to his leg; he couldn't reach it. Instead, he did the next best thing, and drove his knee into Marcus' groin. Eyes popping out, Marcus inhaled a sharp a breath, an odd noise coming from his throat as Oliver shoved him off._

_Scrambling to his feet, Oliver pulled his wand and pointed it, but Marcus had been in enough fights to keep his senses about him even during that much pain, and had his out already. Even though his voice was high-pitched and broken, he had no problem delivering an incantation. "Incendio!"_

_The fire charm winged Oliver's shoulder, singing through his shirt and burning skin easily, but it wasn't his wand arm. "Expelliarmus!"_

_Disarmed, Marcus merely rose to his feet and stared Oliver down. Oliver's wand shook in his hand, and he felt like the more vulnerable of the two. He covered the distance between them in slow steps, and his mouth moved before he could really think ahead about what he was saying. "I'm gay, Flint...I think I have a __**right**__ to make poof jokes."_

_"Yeah, __**that's**__ mature," Flint answered, his eyebrows rising just slightly. He didn't sneer, didn't growl, he was too tired to put effort into it anymore. "Fine bit of logic that is, Wood."_

_Oliver, just now feeling the blood dripping from his lip, couldn't help but feel surprised. He'd gone and bared it all; Flint could probably get a decent payoff for selling news of a pro-player's sexuality to the papers. "That's all you've got to say? No big insults for your old rival after he comes out? Not one?"_

_"You graduated on time, Wood," Marcus deadpanned. "All the insults last year were pretty weak just because of that as it was, I think..."_

_If Marcus' sudden calm surprised Oliver, what he did next was an even bigger surprise; grabbing Oliver by his shirt, Marcus pulled him close and kissed him, with plenty of tongue to spare._

_Shocked out of his mind - and, he had to admit, a little excited by the sheer scandal of it all - Oliver let Marcus get away with it. When Marcus pulled away, Oliver couldn't do anything besides stare at him, waiting for him to say something, anything. Marcus, in turn, stared right back. There wasn't shock in his eyes, or even anger anymore, as if he'd been expecting Oliver to not be there when he was done. "I'm sorry about your arm."_

_Just like that, Flint turned, collected his wand, and dragged his trunk behind him as he walked for a carriage to the train platform._

The knock on the door couldn't have come at a more inopportune time. Oliver was _nearly_ done packing, as much it could be called 'packing,' anyway. He was really just stuffing as much as he could into his Quidditch rucksack, the embroidered Puddlemere United logo on it once a thing he felt great pride in, and now something that fell by the wayside like so much frivolity.

It wasn't just bad timing. As soon as he heard the noise, Oliver felt his muscles tense. Had he been too slow? Was he going to be detained _already?_ It was entirely possible. Quidditch had never been officially cancelled by the Ministry as it underwent its 'sweeping reforms,' but once it was obvious that the League wasn't going to go on for the year, Oliver knew he had to make himself scarce.

As a professional player, as someone whose name was _known_ by people, even if he wasn't _terribly_ famous, he was sure he wasn't very low at all on the list. Everyone loved Quidditch. Even Death Eaters loved Quidditch. Surely, Quidditch would be given just as much attention in being purged of filthy Mudbloods for the sake of the real wizards' enjoyment just like society at large.

And if protecting his parents wasn't incentive enough to get out of dodge, well...his significant other was a pureblood, and he most certainly didn't like the idea of the Death Eaters taking a hit out on him because of his associations.

Breath quickening, heart pounding, Oliver pulled his wand and inched his way over to the door. The knock came again, and, deciding it was now or never, Oliver grabbed the door handle and yanked it open before it even stopped. He already had his incantation going before he even saw anything, knowing that striking first would give him a much better chance at overpowering his attacker. "_Stupefy-ohshitMarcus!"_

Marcus Flint had practically dived onto the floor to get away from the stunner, but he_did_ succeed in evading it. The blast of red fizzled harmlessly on the wall of the hallway. Eyes wide, his hands shaking from the sudden adrenaline rush, Marcus tried to glare at Oliver but ended up looking more frightened than anything. "Oliver! Merlin's _pants_!"

"Marcus," Oliver squeaked. He really didn't have time to talk, and he really didn't want to _see_ Marcus, either. It was hard. It _hurt,_ thinking about how he had to leave Marcus because of politics and the Dark Lord and...it all really just sucked. "Marc, what are you doing here?"

"I came to get_you,_ what do you _think_ I'm doing here?" Marcus' eyes glanced down the hallway both ways before he forced himself inside, shutting the door behind himself. "You've read the paper, right? Did you get my owl? We can't stay here, we gotta go."

Oliver noticed that Marcus was carrying his old Hogwarts bag, and it was stuffed to the brim. He put some thought into how Marcus said 'we can't stay,' as well, and he drew the obvious conclusion. It wasn't, at all, something he was willing to do. "Marc..."

Marcus was reaching his own conclusions while Oliver struggled to find words. Glancing at Oliver's rucksack, at the note left on the table, at the way every single light in the Muggle flat was turned off, Marcus made the obvious observation. "You...you're already leaving?"

"I," Oliver swallowed hard; he knew he was being a total arse, skipping out on Marcus without saying a word. It was just so much easier. Being busted, on the other hand, wasn't so easy at all. "I...Marc, I have to make myself scarce, they could come after my parents, they could come after _you..._"

"Christ, Wood," Marcus' voice sounded cold, but he couldn't muster real anger. He was too worried, and perhaps even paranoid, if the way he walked over to the window and peeked out from behind the blinds was any indication. "To hell with me, or do you expect me to hide under my bed and wonder all the time if you're okay or if you're..."

Marcus didn't finish that sentence, but the look he gave Oliver when he turned back around was enough. It moved Oliver, it really did, the idea that Marcus cared for him that much. He sometimes felt like he wasn't enough for Marcus, in no small part due to Marcus' own words on the occasion they'd started dating. Not now, though. Still, that feeling was something Oliver returned, but in Oliver's mind, letting Marcus act like his personal bodyguard was how _not_ to show it. "You're...you're a pureblood, Marc. You can't come with me; you're safe so long as no one knows about us."

"Ollie," Marcus was practically whispering, his tone halfway between sorrow and angry. When he walked over, Oliver turned his head down, eyes fixed squarely on his hands as he wrung them out on each other; Marcus reached over and took Oliver's hands in his own. "I'm_out of the closet,_ remember? When they're done rounding up the Muggleborns, when there aren't so many left that they can't use them as a scapegoat to 'protect' everyone from, how long do you think it's going to be before they blame other minorities for everyone's problems? How long do you think it'll be before poofs like me are blood traitors for not carrying on the family tree?"

"Shit," Oliver felt like crying. His one comforting thought thus far had been the idea that Marcus would be safe, that he didn't need to worry about him. Running away without anywhere to go was a terrifying prospect, but he accepted it as something he had to do, a fact of life. The idea that Marcus might not be immune to it all practically destroyed him. "Shit, Marcus..."

"Yeah, we're both in that pretty deep," Marcus said. "Are you ready to leave? Do you have anything else to take care of?"

"I'm packed," Oliver hefted his rucksack over his shoulder; it seemed heavier than when he packed for weekends away with Marcus. "Well, if you can call it packed, I really have no idea what I'm doing...I left a note for my parents when they get back, but I need to send a letter to them through the Muggle post, let them know what I'm doing, and all...tell them not to acknowledge I exist if anyone asks."

He said it matter-of-factly, but Marcus wasn't oblivious to how it must've made Oliver feel. Still, he didn't know what he could possibly say to make him feel better. "Alright." Glancing around his parents' flat, Oliver tried to think of anything he might be forgetting, and came up blank. "I guess this is it, then."

Once Oliver locked the door, he hid the key under the doormat. It wasn't so much that he wanted to prevent it being found as he didn't want to be carrying it if, Merlin forbid, he was killed. Better to have nothing that could be followed back to his family.

Tugging at the strap of his rucksack, Oliver looked at the door with trepidation. He almost wanted to put a locking charm on it, even knowing that his parents wouldn't ever be able to open it. "This is it...isn't it? I feel like I'm just heading out on a camping trip."

Eyes shifty, Marcus added, "You know, if we can't find somewhere to lay low for awhile, that might not be far off."

The streets of Muggle London didn't seem as foreign as they usually did. The Muggles felt their own fear; nothing so direct as the wizarding world, but they knew something was wrong. Random deaths and disappearances were increasing everyday: some who didn't know the people next door were Muggleborn wizards didn't know why their neighbors were just gone one day, and direct Muggle deaths were becoming more numerous.

It was as if everyone in Britain expected a bomb to drop any second.

Marcus picked a spot to stand outside of the post office, and told Oliver, "Go on...I'll keep a lookout."

Going inside, Oliver found himself unable to stop his hands from shaking. He muttered, "Get a hold of yourself...no one's after you _yet,_ that's why you're leaving ahead of time..."

Oliver had received his notice to report to the Ministry for his hearing only yesterday, but he was supposed to be there at this very moment. He didn't think it was unreasonable to assume that response time would be slow, given the inquisition's recent implementation. Bureaucracy, even magical, draconian bureaucracy, always had its kinks to work out and its red tape to cut through.

After paying the postman behind the desk and seeing his letter off, Oliver turned and almost walked straight into Marcus. "Marc, Merlin's beard! I thought you were waiting outside..."

"Well, what can I say," taking another of his nervous glances around, Marcus found the time to give Oliver a little, snake-like grin. "I always second-guess myself." He took notice of Oliver's wallet as they walked out. "You've got Muggle money?"

"I had my entire savings converted yesterday," Oliver nodded. "I didn't want to keep it in Gringots, who knows what they'll do with the Muggleborn assets there once they think of it..."

"Smart," Marcus said. Coming from a pureblood family, he had no such worries. All of his savings were in a joint account with his parents, anyway. "I've got some Galleons on me, so we don't need to worry about that...I hate to sound like a mooch, Wood, but if we're going to wait for this stuff to blow over, we should probably keep to the Muggles...easier to get lost in the crowd."

Guilt hit Oliver subtly, a fist pushing his stomach in rather than punching it. They were adults, after all. Wizards, and good ones, at that; Oliver through virtue of serious studying for the N.E.W.T.s he'd earned, Marcus through virtue of practical application more than academics that didn't do much for him. Was running really the best they could manage? "We could join up with the Order of the Phoenix."

He half-expected Marcus to call him an idiot. The response was pleasantly surprising, if not reassuring. "If we could _find_ the Order of the Phoenix...all the open resistors are on the run and who knows where...it's not like they can run a recruiting office."

"You're right," Oliver conceded. Marcus wouldn't even know the Order _existed_ if not for Oliver, and Oliver wouldn't know if the Weasley twins hadn't told him they could use more help. Still, his disappointment was evident in his voice.

Marcus picked up on it. "He who fights and runs away, Ollie...I want to do something about it too, I really do, but we're not exactly equipped to do anything at this very moment...this is how Slytherin-Gryffindor relationships work, you know. You try to rush off and get yourself killed, I figure out how to get us killed _smartly._"

Glancing at Marcus as they walked, Oliver said, "You think...you really think they'll come for me?"

It was a ridiculous question; Oliver had been the one planning on leaving, after all. He regretted saying it the second the words left his mouth. Marcus didn't bring that up, though. "I'd bet on it...especially since the Order's gone to ground; they'll have more time for everyone else. My parents heard scuttlebutt that there are gangs cropping up everywhere, looking for Muggleborns on the run for rewards from the Death Eaters."

"Your parents," Oliver didn't hear anything after that. Oliver was forced to give up Quidditch and his family; Marcus had given them up by choice, for_him_. "Your parents must hate me."

"My parents are too lazy for hate anymore," Marcus' voice sounded sad. His joke was a weak attempt at lightening the subject matter, and he suddenly became very interested in his own trainers rather than looking through the Muggles for anyone who might be a Death Eater. "It takes more effort to hate something than to realize the world is changing. Or _was_ changing, at any rate. They're just like they were when I brought you home with me that first time...they whisper when they think I can't hear and then act civil for my sake."

"Honestly, Marc," Oliver couldn't help but laugh. There was some dark comedy in the way Marcus' family worked. "If all pureblood families were like that, none of this would be happening."

"Like what?" Marcus laughed too, catching it from Oliver as opposed to understanding the humor he saw. "Old fashioned wizards who are more surprised their son is seeing a Muggleborn than the fact that it's another bloke?"

"Old fashioned wizards," Oliver repeated, "Who love their son more than they hate their prejudices."

Marcus stopped in his tracks. The Muggle immediately behind him on the sidewalk ended up bumping into him, excusing himself as he walked by without a second thought. Oliver stopped three steps ahead when he noticed Marcus wasn't next to him. "Marc?"

"Ollie," Marcus swallowed, "When this is all over...introduce me to your parents."

"I," unable to look away from him, Oliver spent several seconds trying to think of any way to change the subject. Or even any way to refuse. He couldn't say 'no,' though. Not when Marcus asked for something truly important. "I...alright."

He half-expected Marcus to lecture him on how he was being stupid, how his parents would still love him if he came out, how they were decent people, certainly above the Flints in terms of humanity, and if the Flints accepted Marcus, surely, Oliver's parents wouldn't even blink. It was something Marcus had tried to convince him of on several occasions.

Marcus almost never looked genuinely happy. The man wore the face of a true Slytherin day-in and day-out, though Oliver had learned to see through it. Right now, though Marcus' face barely changed, Oliver could see a difference. The slight way his eyes widened, the way his lips curled into the faintest of grins said it all.

Eventually, Marcus started walking again, and he said, "So...do you have a plan?"

"Are you kidding?" Oliver almost laughed. His voice strained, he added, "My big plan was to take the tube as far out as I could, walk until I'm out of the city, and then...I don't know..."

"We could go abroad." Marcus made this suggestion with the same trepidation as Oliver has mentioned the Order with. In this case, Marcus knew that going abroad was flat-out abandoning the fight; he felt shame in thinking it, but the idea of real safety was too good to completely ignore.

"Sure," Oliver chuckled. "So instead of figuring out what we do here, we have to figure out what we do in another country...after we figure out how to get there."

Growling under his breath, Marcus added, "I was hoping you'd have relatives in America, or something..."

Sighing, Oliver answered, "All my relatives are Muggles back in Scotland, and only my uncle knows I'm a wizard. Doesn't matter, it's not far away enough. You-know-who's got that covered."

"You're right," Marcus said. "Can't blame me for hoping, right? Besides, if I were Voldemort, I'd already be planning on expanding over the oceans once everything here is taken care of..."

It was a scary thought; the Dark Lord with dominion over the world. Could it really be done, Oliver wondered? Could one man take that much? Maybe not, but Oliver was inclined to believe that if _anyone_ could do it, it would be him.

Lost in his thoughts, Oliver was surprised when Marcus nudged him in the side. "Don't look back, but I think we're being followed."

"Already," Oliver almost lost his gait, his voice coming out faintly. Apparently, the Ministry was more efficient than he'd given it credit for.

His voice urgent, Marcus turned his head left and right, looking for some avenue of escape. "We need to lose ourselves."

Thinking back to his original half-baked idea, Oliver saw their escape as they almost walked right by it. Throwing discreetness to the wind, he grabbed Marcus by the arm and dragged him down the stairs of the Underground station. "C'mon."

Oliver had his wallet out long before he reached the Multifare machine. Marcus was incredulous that they had to stop, as if the Muggle transit system should've expected them to be in a life-or-death rush. He was forced to stand and anxiously eye the stairs as Oliver paid for their tickets.

When the men Marcus had thought were following them showed themselves, all doubt vanished from Oliver's mind. They were pushing through people, and of the three, one of them was clearly wearing the robes of a Death Eater. He'd forgone the hood and mask, but it was more than enough.

Oliver and Marcus were moving again before they were spotted, and they were through the faregate when the Death Eater and his friends gave a more active chase.

Finally chancing a glance behind, Oliver took one look at their pursuer's increased gait and started to walk faster, his arm instinctively going over Marcus' back to pull him along.

Marcus was the one to start them running, though. It became a race not to see who could reach the train, but over who could shove Muggles out of the way faster. When the man in Death Eater robes yelled out "Hey," Oliver lost his concern over being rude.

Luck had been on their side; not only had the ticket machine been free of a line, not only was the train _here_ and bound to leave very shortly, but a ticket inspector had seen the Death Eater jump the turnstile.

The time it took for the men to decide the Muggle authority _had_ no authority over them and shove him aside like everyone else made all the difference. By the time they were running for the train, Oliver and Marcus were inside and the doors had closed, leaving them to stare out through the window at their pursuers.

It didn't seem like Voldemort's lackeys were willing to cause too much of a scene in front of such a large crowd, because the train pulled away with no fuss.

Resting his hand gently on Marcus' back, Oliver breathed a sigh of relief. "Well, at least one good thing came out of that..."

Staring at him, Marcus said, "And what's that?"

"Now I know it was smart to leave..."

"Yeah," Marcus nodded, glancing about at the Muggles on the train, his own paranoia causing him to wonder if the ones with their faces hidden by newspapers might be undercover Death Eaters. The floor seemed to shift under his feet, and he quickly, if awkwardly, followed Oliver's example of hanging on to a rail. "Anyone ever calls you a Mudblood, Wood, I'll kill 'em. Damned if I would've thought of this."

His eyes following Oliver's, Marcus tried to make sense of the route map hanging above the window. Even if he understood it, though, he knew that the map wouldn't provide what they needed; a place to go.


	2. Homewreckers

Revised chapter 1 to fix a continuity error kindly pointed out in the reviews.

* * *

**March  
**Chapter 2: Homewreckers  
_Alhazred - ssjDOTalhazredATgmailDOTcom - alhazredDOTlivejournalDOTcom  
_Not For Profit work. Harry Potter and related materials © J.K. Rowling.

_The problem with being Keeper was getting the chance to __**impress,**__ or rather, the lack of those chances. His tryouts for the team had carried a similar problem, and though he'd overcome it enough to make the team, he now felt an unspoken obligation to impress all over again now that he'd actually been put into play._

_None of Tutshill's Chasers had gotten by Oliver so far, but he was only twenty minutes out, and that could change. The next time a Chaser came at him, Oliver sucked in a breath and pushed it back out, forcing himself to un-tense. He almost, __**almost**__ missed the catch. The Chaser abruptly tossed the Quaffle over his own head and jumped for it, batting it in Oliver's direction with his broom in a classic Finbourne Flick._

_It was the move itself that gave Oliver what he needed; the broom swung just a little too far, and Oliver knew he was being faked out before the Quaffle was through the goal. He didn't know it before he ran out of time to move for an interception, but he had __**plenty**__ of time to dive off of his broom at it._

_It wasn't a catch, but it didn't need to be. The Quaffle bounced off of Oliver's arm and didn't go anywhere near the goal. Catching his broom with one hand as he fell, Oliver swung around and got his legs on it, righting himself by the time he was halfway down to the ground and bolting back upwards just in time to catch the Quaffle again; the same Chaser had figured on an easy score when Oliver had started falling._

_With it in his hands this time, Oliver was free to throw it to someone on his own team and not worry about interception._

_All in all, it hadn't made or broken the game. But Puddlemere __**had**__ won, and the main team __**had**__ invited him for drinks. The politics of professional play, things like the need to impress aside, Oliver had realized that night that he was happy. He was doing what he wanted to do with his life, and better still, he was __**good**__ at it, if the compliments he'd been paid at the bar were any indication._

_"Gotta be mental trying to dive off going after a Flick, never seen anyone do that before."_

_"Never seen anyone __**catch**__ it either!"_

_"Must have balls made out of some pretty strong wood, Wood!"_

_He woke up the next morning with a hangover, because he'd been stupid and hadn't had any water after __**more**__ than his fair share of Firewhiskey. The knock came at the window while he'd been rummaging for his water bottle, and he opened the blinds without thinking._

_At first, the sunlight was blinding and downright painful. Soon, it grew from 'painful' to 'apocalyptic,' possibly magnified by thoughts of what the owl could possibly be bringing him. High on Oliver's list of adult Muggleborn pleasures was the inability of his parents to keep tabs on him magically, but it could've been, say, an owl from Puddlemere management telling him he'd been fired._

_The letter the owl dropped off before fluttering away wasn't written on nice parchment with the Puddlemere stationary, though. It was a quickly scribbled note, and a short one, at that._

Wood,

Let's talk. Leaky Cauldron, 1:30. Lunch is on you.

-M. Flint

_"Great," Oliver sighed. It was one-fifteen in the afternoon already. "Probably going to blackmail me."_

center /center

"You know," Oliver said, "For someone with a NEWT in Charms, you'd think I could make a bigger inside-space in a bag."

Shoving everything into his rucksack had become a chore. It wasn't that Oliver regretted taking as much as he had. Having fresh clothes to wear until there was a moment to pause in an alley or, Merlin forbid, a public bathroom to Scourgify what had already been worn was a nice thing. He wished he'd remembered his razor; a shaving charm was a poor substitute and the idea of asking Marcus to borrow his made him feel incredibly stupid.

"We'll work on that when we feel safe somewhere for more than ten minutes," Marcus said. There was a hint of humor in his voice, overshadowed by fatigue. His body jolted and rocked around more than Oliver's from the bus' tendency to hit every single pot-hole in the road; he just didn't feel a need to put effort into hanging onto a rail since he was sitting down. "Which, if we're lucky, might be soon."

"I still say you should let me pay for a hotel," Oliver said. "Not like I can't afford it."

"Won't be able to afford it forever," Marcus answered. "I don't particularly enjoy the night shelters, but..."

He let the thought hang in the air. Marcus' financial sense wasn't something Oliver lacked. What Oliver lacked was his level of pessimism. Of the two of them, Marcus had much less trouble believing that the 'war,' as it were, would go on for an extended period of time. He could plainly see the two weeks they'd already spent on the streets of London turning into two months, two months turning into six, six months turning into twelve.

"Yeah," Oliver nodded, but he wasn't looking at Marcus, or staring out the windows on the opposite side of the bus as the the rain beat down on it. He was twisting around in his seat, staring out of the window behind them. "Suddenly I think there's something to be said for staying on the move...look."

Craning his neck to look in the same direction, Marcus saw exactly what Oliver was talking about. "Christ." It was only there for a moment, black cloak swooping into the wind and rain behind the Dementor as it skimmed across the front of the buildings, ducking over a roof with unnatural agility not long after Marcus realized what it was. It was almost as invisible as it would be to a Muggle set against the cloudy night sky. They were on the last bus before tomorow morning, and for the first time, Marcus was truly thankful for a Muggle contraption. He was glad he didn't have to be on foot with a Dementor flying down the path to their destination. "I guess the rain's not going to let up anytime soon."

"You think they're raiding flats?" Oliver didn't look away, even though there wasn't anything to see anymore. "Looking for Muggleborn's trying to dodge registration?"

In a deadpan, Marcus said, "Yeah, I think they're raiding flats. Hope they're not doing _worse._"

"Well, look on the bright side," Oliver gave a chuckle, "If we're out on the_street,_ they won't think we're hiding, and they can't see us looking suspicious."

Taking a deep breath, Marcus let out a sigh. "Wood, I don't know how you keep seeing bright sides, but I'm not complaining...here's our stop."

Oliver almost bumped into the middle-aged man sitting lopsided in a seat near the front. The thin aisle left little in the way of personal space; the scent of alcohol hung around that seat, and Oliver heard him mutter, "Fuckin' chavs," as they brushed by.

He didn't think Marcus knew what that word meant, and he didn't think they really looked like chavs, either. There had been times over the last ten years of his life where Oliver found himself wondering how things would've turned out if he had never gotten his letter from Hogwarts...he'd be playing Football or Rugby instead of Quidditch, no doubt. He'd have a smaller chance of making a professional team on account of more Muggles around to vie for positions.

He wouldn't have changed anything given the chance, though. Oliver wasn't the type to run away from life over what-ifs. He _was,_ however, one to appreciate the guidance of others when he was absolutely clueless, and as such, he followed Marcus without protest as they walked down the street. "You still haven't told me where we're going."

The rain wasn't much of a downpour, but it was just enough to be annoying, just enough to get someone wet. "It's a surprise."

"No, it's not," Oliver chuckled. "You're not sure whatever you're planning is going to _work,_ and you're not telling me so I won't be let down if it doesn't."

"Damn, Wood," Marcus glanced at him, a sarcastic little smirk on his face. "You're_good._ Should've been in Slytherin, with thinking like that."

"Dreadful nightmare _that'd_ be," Oliver said. "Being as uptight as you."

"I am _not_ uptight," Marcus said. "It's right around here." The street was in a wealthy area in a London Borough, though it wasn't_terribly_ wealthy. The buildings were nice, but none were mansions. After crossing a small bridge, Marcus turned onto a smaller road. "Merlin's _pants,_ that rain is _cold._"

"You'd think one of us would've thought of an umbrella." Oliver's joke would've been funny if the two of them weren't the punch line. He glanced up and down the road, half-expecting a Dementor or a Death Eater to leap out from one of the houses. Following Marcus up someone's driveway, he seriously hoped that Marcus knew where he was going. The rain _was_ cold, and the night was still young. It reminded him of making his seventh-year team practice in a torrential downpour, if only because_that_ rain hadn't been nearly as freezing.

"And, here we go," Marcus said. The house he'd led Oliver to was plain-looking, with off-white aluminum siding and a fancy knocker on the door. It was shaped like a sword underneath the handle; Marcus ignored it in favor of banging on the door with his fist three times.

The amount of time in which nothing happened seemed to stretch on forever. There was no awning over the door, no protection from the rain while they waited. After thirty seconds passed, Marcus banged on the door even harder.

The sounds of someone hurrying down a staircase reached their ears, barely audible through the door. The voice that followed was, though muffled, easy to hear. "Who is it!"

"It's _Flint,_" Marcus raised his voice as appropriate, "Open the goddamn door!"

The latch unlocked, and, finally, the door opened. Oliver hadn't recognized the voice, but he recognized the young man on the other side almost instantly. It was someone he hadn't seen in awhile, and someone he'd never really paid much attention to anyway.

Holding the door halfway open, dressed for bed with a bathrobe over his night clothes, Graham Montague seemed, at first, surprised. "Flint? What in the world are you..."

When his eyes slid off of Marcus and found Oliver, Montague suddenly panicked. 'Panic' was what Oliver thought it was, anyway. It was hard to really tell, given that he slammed the door closed without another word.

It made Oliver feel more than a little jilted. Obviously, Montague had an issue with him. "_That_ went well..."

Not answering him, Marcus pounded on the door yet again, still harder. "Montague! Let us _in,_ you bastard!"

"No way!" Fear in his voice was evident. "Get off my property!"

"Of all the," Marcus did not finish this sentence, in favor of sharing a look with Oliver. He seemed even _more_ burned. Montague had been his teammate for years in school, after all. Again, he raised his voice so he could be heard through the door. "Monty, what the fuck is_wrong_ with you?"

"You're traveling with a _fugitive_ and you're asking what's wrong with me," Montague yelled back.

The words hit hard. Oliver didn't understand how 'fugitive' could possibly describe him, he couldn't believe that he was _that_ far into it just from running away. Still, there wasn't anyone else standing next to Marcus right now.

Marcus was just as surprised, but it didn't deter him. "Open this fucking door or I'll blow it open. You want to chance the Dementors in town hearing it? Because _I'll_ chance it."

For what it was worth, Oliver believed him. Moreover, he was inclined to agree. Fighting off Dementors right now couldn't be as bad as standing out in the freezing rain. Besides, he could do a Patronus charm...what was there to worry about?

Of course, Marcus was so terrible at charms that he couldn't conjure a Patronus to the point of silver mist, let alone a corporeal one. If Montague had a similar affinity for the magical skills that were, perhaps by cliche, more Slytherin-oriented, he probably couldn't do it either.

The silence was, hopefully, an indication that Montague was at least thinking it over. Finally, the lock clicked and the door swung open. Looking _very_ unhappy, Montague nevertheless gestured for them to come inside. "Hurry _up,_ then!"

Shoving his way right by him, Marcus wasted no time in attempting to make himself more comfortable. Throwing his backpack against the wall, he scrubbed his hands through his hair to get the loose water out and tried to shake it dry, to some effect. He ended up splashing Montague with a few drops, just enough to annoy him. Heaving his wet jacket off, he simply let it drop to the ground.

It didn't go over well with their impromptu host. "Flint, for Merlin's sake, stop making a _mess._"

"It's _cold,_" Marcus shot back, not even looking at him as he leaned against the wall so he could get one leg up at a time and pull off his trainers. "You're lucky I'm not stripping down."

"Not like I didn't see _that_ for years in the locker room," Montague rolled his eyes. He glanced at Oliver. "_You_ strip and you go back outside!" Stomping past Marcus, he started to take stock of his situation, and neither Marcus nor Oliver thought he actually intended to speak low enough for them not to hear. "Jesus christ, Oliver Wood in my house five years ago wouldn't be _this_ ridiculous..."

For his part, Oliver was much more tactful about his attempt to be less wet than Marcus was. He stood his rucksack up in the corner, hung his coat on the actual coat rack, and kicked his trainers off before taking a step further into the house.

Marcus had yanked his shirt off and rung it out over the exact place on the floor he happened to be standing. It was high-quality wood, like the walls seemed to be. Glancing about, Oliver couldn't fathom the idea that Montague didn't live with his parents. The house just seemed so much like something from the last generation: soft lighting, fine wood, antique-looking furniture, a fireplace with a small, cozy flame burning...the mantle had family photographs, all of them magical. Montague looked too young to be wearing such an expensive-looking bathrobe.

Tossing his sopping-wet T-shirt onto the back of the biggest chair in the living room before sitting in it, Marcus took a deep breath. He felt relieved, being able to sit down for more than five minutes. "You mind if we crash here for awhile?"

"_Of course_ that's why you're here." Letting out a sigh, Montague rubbed at his eyes. He picked up a mug from its coaster on the coffee table, next to a copy of the _Daily Prophet,_ and took a long drink from it. "Why else? Christ, Flint. I guess you haven't _seen_ this?"

Without further words, he slid the paper across the table so Marcus could grab it. Turning it over to the front page, he only needed to read the headline before he handed it over to Oliver, still standing and right next to him. "Oh, hell."

The paper was enough to get Oliver off of his feet. Nearly falling over himself as he made his way around the table and to the couch, he tried very hard to will away the front-page story. Even if he could, he didn't think there was a Protean charm on the paper anyway. The large picture in the center was his own, taken as he'd scrambled for their tickets to the tube. Marcus wasn't in the shot, but it didn't matter. Sliding his eyes away from his terrified face on the paper, he read the headline:_Pro-Quidditch Player a Mudblood, Investigations of the League Underway._

Parts of the article he couldn't help but read out loud. Not hearing it would stop him from acknowledging it as reality. His voice wavered, skipping sentences as he read them and coming back for others.

_Puddlemere United's Oliver Wood was outed as a Mudblood this week. By refusing to submit himself to the Ministry for registration, Wood has all but admitted guilt for the theft of a true wizard's wand and magic. Ministry officials have, in response to this, revealed their intentions to ensure that the nation's pastime of Quidditch will not be a safe haven for those without true wizarding blood..._

Feeling like he was going to be sick, Oliver bunched the paper up in his hands and tossed it to the floor. He couldn't believe it; less than a month and he was already a wanted fugitive. He supposed he was lucky that he wasn't the team's star Chaser. Even Quidditch couldn't be left alone. "Well...great."

Resigned to letting his 'guests' wreck his spotless home for the time being, Montague sat back in his chair and made a face. He was visibly showing restraint. "Sucks to be you...I swear to god, Flint...you are not staying here more than a few days. I'm not going to be hauled off as a blood-traitor for you."

"Gee, Monty," Marcus deadpanned, "Thanks for caring."

"I'm not having this argument," Montague dismissed him. "You can leave right now, if you want."

There was no arguing with that. What Oliver said to Montague surprised him a little, and it surprised Marcus, as well. "Thank you."

A few days were better than nothing, after all.

After draining his mug, Montague gave him a very, _very_ slight nod. Heaving himself out of his chair with great effort, Marcus' former teammate pulled his bathrobe tight and plodded off towards the stairs. "Guestroom upstairs is small; I'll let you two decide who gets the couch. We'll talk more in the morning," this last part seemed to be directed at Marcus. "I'm going to bed."


	3. Star Crossed

**March  
**Chapter 3: Star-Crossed  
_Alhazred - ssjDOTalhazredATgmailDOTcom - alhazredDOTlivejournalDOTcom_

_Marcus didn't usually pace around his flat as though bothered by something. He usually wasn't bothered by much of anything, certainly not to the point of nervousness and uncertainty._

_It wasn't like Oliver Wood was about to come knocking on his door any second. That was utterly absurd, and yet, Flint couldn't shake the weird feeling, the tightness in his chest as if Wood __**was**__ coming to see him for any reason, innocent or otherwise._

_"Merlin's pants," he finally stopped, forcing himself to sit down and unfold the latest 'Daily Prophet.' He half-expected Puddlemere United to be a front-page story with Oliver waving at him from a team photo; mercifully, this was not the case. "I feel like a goddamned first-year."_

_Whether he felt like a first-year at Hogwarts or a first-year lawyer wringing his hands in anticipation of his first case, Flint couldn't tell. He remembered being much more scared that first time outside the courtroom than he'd been when getting on the boat. Maybe it was only because purebloods had an easier time coping with Hogwarts._

_Wood just seemed to take him down a peg. He was someone who would never look to Flint for anything, and while that had been perfectly fine with him in school, it felt more than a little bizarre now. It'd felt bizarre ever since Wood had said those magic words, "I'm gay."_

_Hearing those words had turned Wood into something more resembling a challenge than a rival. That feeling gave Marcus pause, as he'd never been one to take challenges just for the sake of it. If he had, he'd have gotten out of school on time and with much better grades._

_Besides, what would Oliver Wood really give him?_

_Wondering why the lack of a good answer to that question didn't seem to matter, Marcus sat down and put quill to parchment, finally doing something rational about Oliver Wood's coming-out drama. "What the hell, why not? Might as well see if it goes anywhere..."_

_His hand stopping mid-word, Flint very nearly looked upwards towards the ceiling. Thinking of actually getting laid always made him feel guilty as if he were cheating on the last man who'd been important to him, but he didn't let it stop him._

* * *

"You're dripping on the carpet." 

Sitting down on the big, posh chair across from Montague, the coffee table between them, Marcus had to try very hard to be more polite than he normally would. Montague was giving them shelter, after all. Still, only his hair was dripping; he'd been so ecstatic about having an actual _shower_ that he'd thrown his clothes on without even toweling off. "It's just water. It'll evaporate."

"Merlin's sake," Montague grabbed his wand from the coffee table, and pointed it to the door off to his right. _"Accio towel."_

After the washcloth floated in from the kitchen, Montague threw it at Marcus with the intent of having it land over his head. Catching it, Marcus nevertheless obliged him and scrubbed at his hair. "This better not be a dirty dish rag."

With a roll of his eyes, Montague said, "It's not."

"_Smells_ like it." Despite his words, Marcus didn't throw it back until he'd gotten as much of the water out of his hair as he could. "Stop giving me shit, Graham. I didn't think you'd _like_ us dropping in unannounced, but..."

"'But' nothing," Montague said.

He looked like he was going to give Marcus a mouthful, and Marcus, in turn, interrupted him. "Don't 'but nothing' me. You and Higgs and Pucey were like my _family_ in school, I don't even know where they _live_ now. I can't knock on your door needing help without feeling like I'm carrying a plague."

Snorting out a laugh, Montague said, "With a celebrity fugitive, that's about right. Look outside...it's a nightmare out there. Dementors are floating around the streets, gangs everywhere are cropping up to hunt Mudbloods like your new best friend upstairs. I don't know about you, but I didn't get put into Slytherin because I thought standing in front of catastrophe is ever a good idea."

Thinking carefully about his words, Marcus said, "I don't know about _you,_ but I got put in Slytherin because I like making the world work the way **I** want it to."

Montague didn't seem to have an answer to that. Not one that painted him favorably. "The world's a smaller place these days, Flint. Maybe it was just never as big as we thought it was, looking out the windows from school..."

"Nah," Marcus shook his head. Voldemort's reign of terror meant that Marcus was seriously lacking in options, nothing more. "World's still the same, there's just...less in it."

"The three of us," Montague let out a long sigh before continuing, "We never judged you for being queer. But school's over, so it doesn't matter anymore. It's a non-issue when you deal with people now, 'cause you have room to just walk away if things don't go well. Did you just want someone more Quidditch-obsessed to be around, now?"

Montague gave a glance up the stairs, and Marcus did the same. He really wasn't sure how to break the truth. It felt, somehow, more awkward than coming out of the closet. "Not really."

Fortunately, Montague seemed to figure it out after considering that response. He glanced from the stairs to Marcus and back, finally narrowing his eyes at his old team captain. They widened as the realization came together. "Wait, he's not...are you..._are_ you?"

"Yeah," Marcus nodded. "Since...yeah. About two years now."

"Christ, Flint." Montague was obviously holding back laughter, and Marcus was obviously annoyed that he felt the need to laugh in the first place. Trying to control himself and failing, Montague added, "You just...you just can't have normal relationships, can you?"

"Fuck you," Flint answered. It had none of the malice he'd intended, his anger lost in the knowledge that it wasn't a very good come-back. "Like you have a clue what we're like day-to-day."

"I'm not talking about that," Montague kept chuckling. "Just...Oliver Wood. You're with _Oliver Wood._ Did you hit him with a memory charm so he'd _forget_ how much he hates you? And before _him_ it was-"

"Can we _not_ go there!" Practically shouting, hands up in the air, Marcus forgot that being rude might land them out on the street again. He was pretty sure Montague would feel like the offender once he thought about it, though. "That...that didn't end well, and you know it."

Pausing, Montague considered Marcus' words so intently that his face became stuck on the bemused look he'd had beforehand. "I...sorry. Wasn't thinking."

Choosing to admonish him one last time, desperate to get the last word in, Marcus spat, "Obviously." There was a sudden awkwardness when neither of them continued yelling at each other. "Right...anyway."

"Just don't have sex on any of my furniture." Standing up, Montague walked over to a table set along the wall and uncorked a bottle of firewhiskey. In the middle of pouring himself a shot, he halfway glanced at Marcus over his shoulder. "Drink?"

"Please." Slumping into his chair, Marcus couldn't think of anything more inviting. He wanted to be back upstairs so Oliver wouldn't be fending for himself after he'd finished his shower, but at the same time, the idea of a little alcohol was hard to resist. Scrubbing a hand through his hair, he found that it was still damp and it left him with the unpleasant sensation of it sticking out in every direction.

When Montague handed him the glass, it came with more foreboding words. "Figure out where you're going tomorrow. You'd better be planning on how to get 'there' before supper."

"Right." Chuckling, either at Montague or at his own predicament, he wasn't sure which, Marcus knocked back the Firewhiskey. It wasn't entirely satisfying; while he didn't usually like the overwhelming strength of Muggle booze, he probably would've preferred it right about now, if there'd been some around. Considering the apparent quality of life Montague had, he was surprised there wasn't any set out on the table. "What do you do these days, anyway? Nothing here looks cheap."

"Most of it came with the house," Montague shrugged. He looked strange trying to have a conversation in his bathrobe. He was skinnier than Marcus remembered. "I work at Gringots. The goblins like having people to do the paperwork so they can muck around in the vaults all day."

"Weird," Marcus blinked. Montague working in a bank wasn't so odd, it was something a good little Slytherin would do, especially if he kept it going as a career. Spending so much time with him on the Quidditch pitch made Marcus think that he'd have fit better doing the vault work.

Practically reading his mind, Montague continued, "Of course, it's not like goblins have wands, right? Being a wizard in the place is like being on-call as a gofer twenty-four-seven. The other day, the water barrier for Vault 13 stopped working, practically killed myself going outside to fix it."

"If goblins had wands they'd spend all day trying to invent new vault doors, and you'd be doing more work." Not even fathoming why a bank, even Gringots, would use water-themed enchantments, Marcus tried to chuckle at the idea of Montague hard at work and his own attempt at humor, but he didn't have the strength. The air came out through his nose in a low snort. He said, "Right...well, where are we sleeping, anyway?"

"There's an extra room upstairs," Montague pointed his thumb upwards, "The bed is only a single, though."

Pulling himself out of the big chair, Marcus could hear the leather pull away from his damp clothes. "I'll take the couch...I'm going to go make sure Wood is all set when he's done with the shower."

"Merlin's pants, Flint." Shaking his head, Montague gave Marcus the same incredulous as when he'd first learned what Oliver was to him. "And you're _girly _over him, too..."

"Fuck _off,_" Marcus reiterated. "I hope Voldemort pulls your skull out of your head and eats your damn brains."

"Ohh." Feigning terror, Montague answered, "Good one. You just always throw you-know-who's name out when you can't think of a comeback?"

Deciding to let Montague have the last word, Marcus walked up the stairs without saying anything. Much to his surprise, Montague quickly stood from his chair, blurting out words that he seemed like he hadn't expected to say. "Does he treat you good?"

Stopping so quickly that he almost fell over, Marcus turned back to stare at him. The question was just that ridiculous. "What?"

Thinking he had to explain it, Montague said, "Wood. You know...is he good for you, n'everything?"

Unsure how to answer, Marcus somehow felt that Montague wouldn't be satisfied with a simple 'yes.' He wasn't sure he even wanted to dignify the question with an actual answer; Marcus found it easy to take things personally, and he couldn't help a nagging feeling that he was being patronized or pitied. He heard the question as though Montague thought Oliver might be abusing him. "Well what do _you_ think, genius?"

Shrugging, Montague gave Marcus a curt nod, eyes to the floor. He sat back down, and watched Marcus climb the stairs.


End file.
